Caught in the Act
by Sakura123
Summary: Caught stealing, a half-naked Clark Kent attempts to make light of the situation. AU on the post-Oil Rig sequence in the film. "Man of Steel" 'verse. ONE SHOT.


**Title:** Caught in the Act

**Summary:** Caught stealing, a half-naked Clark Kent attempts to make light of the situation. AU on the "Seasons" sequence in the film. "Man of Steel" 'verse. ONE SHOT.

**Disclaimer:** "Man of Steel" / "Superman" is property of DC Comics and Warner Bros. If I owned MOS, David Goyer would never be allowed to touch the property. Like, ever.

* * *

He crawls up to shore dripping wet and no worse for wear. His skin is barely prickled from the steam that rolls from his body from conflicting temperatures of his environment and his physique. There's barely anything left of his clothes from the incident, the rags that hang around his waist seem to remain for the sake of modesty.

In a sleepy town like the one he chose to live in, things like a half-naked man roaming about the streets didn't go unnoticed by even the children. That was a problem for someone like him; it certainly didn't blow over well with the folk in his own town, being noticed for odd things. So many questions and very little desire to answer them. Most thought he was dead, his mother knew better and perhaps that was the worst part of being out here, creeping through backyards like a criminal.

He had it within him to run straight back home, climb into some clothes, hug his mother and reconnoiter about his deeds in the isolated places of the United States. Yet, the potential scrutiny he would land his mother in always stopped him. If there was anything she taught him before he left, discretion in the face of curious eyes was a lesson he was still struggling to get right.

Jogging up the slope that connected the backyard of two houses, Clark jumped at the sound of a barking dog a good mile or two away from him. Nothing to worry about he thought. The clothesline before him swung lazily in the breeze, shirts, towels and underwear none-the-wiser to the burglary he was about to commit. He walked up to the first shirt he saw and clamped his hands about the sleeve. Bounty soft he thought to himself, and the breeze that began to pick up dragged past his legs.

His eyes wander to the left, the shadow of person moves past the window just a few above the ground in the house with two floors. It's almost amusing how the heartbeat, languid and normal, picks up immediately in stride with their breathing. Clark drops his hand the moment the shadow of that person becomes physical and the window rises.

A group of thin immaculate braids swing forth out the window and reveal round features and big brown eyes. Her expression tells him this isn't the first time she's been robbed so he tries to put on his best non-threatening white guy smile™. "Hi," He says.

She doesn't buy it of course. "What are you doing?" Her tone is even, but edging close to anger. His pupils dilate; the house and her very body become a blueprint of inner workings and moving parts. His eyes dart left to right, searching for some sign of identity. He sees a sleeping dog, pictures of a happy family, a little girl with pigtails and a missing tooth and at least one name. Aisha Tyler. The lie comes to him like second nature; despite his enormous stature it isn't hard to adopt everything that could make you look lesser a man than snatching clothes from someone's clothesline. "I, uh, don't suppose I could trouble you for a shirt?" He asked sheepishly.

"Why ask? You were going to steal it anyways, right?" The woman's braids swing to the right as she tilts her head ever so slightly. Her heartbeat hasn't calmed since she poked her head out of the window. His eyes switch upward, through the walls of the house he can see a man sleeping on his side in the bedroom just above her. He flicks his eyes back down to her and tries the placate her. He nods his head in the affirmative. "Yeah, I was," He admits in the face of his better judgment. "But, I'm asking now. So, please - Aisha…?"

If it weren't for the skip in her heartbeat, he would've assumed the name drop never affected her; he clearly hit the nail on the head, but she wasn't about to let him know that. "I've seen you around- at the bar, mostly. I'm a fisherman- I work on the docks," He supplies quickly.

"So the first thing you think is, "gee, I think I'll rob that girl Aisha's place. She seems okay to steal from"? Give me a break," She starts to move back into the house.

"W-wait, wait!" He steps back from the clothesline and raises his hands. "I'm not - I just - I just need some clothes, that's all." Aisha sticks her head back out the window, her expression even more suspicious. "The hell happened to you anyway?"

"I-uh, it's a long story," He supplied. "Let's just say I should probably never stand in an open fire ever again."

Another jump in her heartbeat; maybe he's hit a soft spot in her. Or maybe she thinks he's crazy. She disappears back into the window and he follows her heartbeat, accelerated from her pace through the house, toward the end of the house. He can hear her muttering about the audacity of bearded hairy white thieves who look more Tarzan than fisherman.

A soft whistle rings in his hears, the dog he saw earlier barks in response. Her heartbeat calms just a little as she makes her way back over to where he is. Surprisingly, she doesn't step outside, she returns to the window. Strategy, minimize how much control your possible opponent can have in your environment. Her braids swing forward, framing her face in shadows. He catches a glimpse of a Labrador's paw coming to rest on the window sill as if to announce his presence to the stranger outside of his house.

Her arms are the next thing to appear; the mild bend of her right arm reveals the taut muscles hiding beneath skinny arms and he's almost tempted to peek at the rest of her, but remembers his manners. A heavy coat and a pair of jeans are dropped onto the ground. "Here," Aisha says. "I hate these things and he can always buy a new pair." She leans back a bit, the Labrador's head comes up now and his deep brown eyes watch him with suspicion. Good dog he thinks, looking out for his friend.

Clark gathers the clothes up from the ground and bows his head slightly. "Thank you, I really appreciate this," He tells her. Aisha places a hand on her Labrador's head as she nods. "Take the shirt, too," She says. Clark eyes the powder blue shirt (double layered, undershirt and shirt combined) and looks up at her in question. "Won't your boyfriend miss it?"

She smiles. "I don't know about my "boyfriend", but I can assure you my brother has enough clothes that he'll never notice a shirt missing," Aisha informs him. Clark gets the message. She wants him gone and fast. Yanking the shirt from its clips, Clark pulls it over his head and proceeds to tear the tattered pants from his body.

His boxers are the only survivors of the incident. It's a reckless move and in the corner of his eye he can definitely see the wheels turning in Aisha's head further questioning his sanity. He jumps into the pants, they're way too long for him, but the jacket is comfortable enough that it doesn't hug his arms or hangs too lose. Grabbing his tattered belongings off the ground he flashes his smile again. "Thank you, really," He said. "Next time I'll knock on the door."

The joke doesn't get him anywhere; Aisha gives him a look as if to ask if he was being serious with the attempt at levity. "Get out of here before I call the cops, fisherman."

"Chris."

"What?"

"My name, it's Chris,"

She squints at him. "Get out of here before I call the cops, _Chris_."

Clark doesn't think twice about the command. Ducking underneath the clothesline he burns a quick path across the rest of the backyards before moving out towards sidewalks to his far right.

* * *

**FIN.**


End file.
